Sandy needs braces

Each year I accumulate in my adult life feels like a year’s worth of regression into childhood.

At 12 and 13, I had awful teeth – leftovers from an early life of sweets and neglecting my dentist’s advice. At 14 and 15, I had the worst skin – acne. At 16 and 17, I had braces – yes, I attended my Year 12 formal and got what were supposed to be glamorous photos of my nubileness… with braces.

Big fuckoff metal braces too, because I felt guilty for my parents having to pay for my expensive dental treatment and couldn’t bring myself to choose the more subtle, delicate ones.

That didn’t bother me as much as I expected it to. I guess the skin and early childhood teeth ugliness desensitised me a bit to vanity. What did bother me a lot – and I still bear psychological scars from – was the pain. THE PAIN fresh from the sterile office of the orthodontist.

But I bit down, grinned and bore it; holding onto the idea of having lovely teeth forever after and never needing horrible braces again…

Garrrrrffkkjljljljlkkkkkkkrrrrrr.

The dentist said I have not enough premolars and too many canines. Too many canines because my baby teeth are still in there on the verge of falling out. He said it’s healthier to have a normal set of teeth, so I don’t screw up my bite. So I’ll need implants. And for that, I’ll need braces.

I had a weird dream a few nights ago; dreamt I was 17 again, wondering why I’ve spent all this time thinking I’m a 29 year old working adult when I’m still finishing school. Maybe it’s an omen; a sign that it’s okay to regress into that first-time optimism about this dental affair.

It’s 8-something on a Sunday night. Think I might floss soon.